


Stare Into The Sun

by Socket



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Even more than usual, F/F, F/M, Grace is a hot gay mess, Lots of Angst, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, peripheral Grace/Nick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2019-10-14 12:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17508266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Socket/pseuds/Socket
Summary: You’re 80 years old and for the first time you’re deeply, irrevocably, in love and it hurts.At Bud's wedding Grace contemplates her future with Frankie.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline:** Set during “5x12: The Wedding”

You wanted to teach her a lesson. You wanted her to fall apart without you. You tell yourself you left for a good reason – to give you both a breather, to make her stand on her own two feet. But really, you did it to show her how much she needs you. To make her appreciate all the small things you do for her, day-in, day-out. Without thanks. Without recognition.

But she’s thriving without you. She’s as magnificent as you always knew her to be. Even in the wilderness years, when you were still shackled to Robert, you watched her from afar, clutching your martini glass at Robert’s work dinner parties and wishing you could be as free. You saw the looks of condemnation from the other wives, would catch their eye and share a smirk, partake silently in their judgement, but secretly, you envied her.

At the Christmas Gala held by Robert’s firm every year Frankie would take to the dance floor, hippy tie-dye skirts swirling, untamed hair swaying, and dance alone, wild and free, lost in her own world, while straight-laced couples floated past her. Those grey couples faded into rigid lines, stiff lips and scowls of disapproval. Frankie stood out. You watched her closely, it was like staring into the sun: flares of colour emanated from her, sparks and blinding light surrounded her. You tried to look away but she lit-up the room. Lit-up something inside of you.

Frankie has the _Vybrant_ situation under control. She’s following a plan of her own making and didn’t needed to be cajoled or coaxed into it. You’re mostly proud but a little resentful and hurt. Her success makes a mockery of you. You knew this day would come. She’s already left you once – to pursue her dreams, that didn’t contain you, in Santa Fe. Left you for a man. Left you for an idea. Well, here it is at last. Fait accompli. The real crunch time. The real ending. You feel it in your bones.

The fake smile you plaster across your face starts to crack. Your knuckles whiten as they grip your glass: a Bloody Mary you’ve been forced to improvise because Allison is allergic to olives and so Martini’s are off the menu. Nick leans close to you, full of concern and comforting words, and you know you should be grateful but you can’t help begrudge him for not being her. He’ll never be her and that’s all you really want.

You want Frankie to look at you the way Nick does, not feel relieved every time you leave the room.

You stand to get another drink from the makeshift bar in your living room because you can see Frankie perfectly from your seat at the kids table. Can see her framed in the doorway talking to Allison’s Mother and the sun is starting to set and the light catches her hair and the infernal clunky necklace of black beads about her neck glitters and she smiles and your heart stops and your chest expands and you can’t breathe. So you turn away, get up on shaky feet and move towards the makeshift bar. Fuck it if you drink the whole house dry. Fuck it if you’re a total mess. She wrecks everything – the kitchen garbage disposal, the dishwasher, the shower, your heart.

You ignore the catering staff who try to pour your drink for you and reach for the bottle of vodka behind the bar, you fill your glass to the top, take a large gulp and then replenish it again. Your hand is shaking and then you feel warmth at your back. Remember those mornings after the break-in when you’d awake with Frankie in your bed, curled round you. The delicate essence of her organic herbal shampoo lingering in the air, her arm absently slung across your stomach, her warm breath against the back of your neck, the gentle rise and fall of her chest pressing against your back. It had been too confusing, too much, then, to admit what you felt. 

You feel a presence close to you now. A hand touches your lower back and you turn, it’s Nick. You feel a pang of guilt for wishing him a million miles away right now. He’s been nothing but patient with you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod.

“We can leave if you like?” he offers.

You wouldn’t like. What you’d actually like is for everyone else to leave, save yourself and Frankie. Just you. In the house, alone, together. As it should be. To hash this out once and for all. No interlopers and no more distractions.

You tried to be honest before but Frankie had just laughed at you. You’d been serious when you’d asked, at 79, at your first ever slumber party, “Okay, you wanna have sex with me or what?”

The innuendo, ambiguous intimation and forthright propositions have been there from the start, laced in your every interaction with her. And when you worked-up the courage to call Frankie on it, entirely sincere and full of curiosity, Frankie had laughed. So you pushed the feelings back down and far, far away. That was the night you made-up your mind about Nick. He never laughed at you. He wanted you. That was the moment you decided to be with someone who took you seriously.

“Let’s stay a little longer, for Bud,” you hear yourself say. You always, grudgingly, liked Bud. He was the least annoying of the Bergstein clan.

Nick nods but he knows you too well to be convinced. His hand stays on your back as you sip your drink.

Just then Frankie breezes past, bestowing fervent attention on her granddaughter. She’s giggles and smiles and a whirlwind as she spins Faith in her arms. The pain in your chest intensifies. She’s ignoring you and it stings. So much for you swooping in and saving the day. So far all you’ve done is spoil it.

Despite this, you’re not ready to leave just yet. If there’s even the slightest chance, the tiniest window, you want one more chance to speak to Frankie. To fix this.  


Those two weeks in the Maldives were blissful. You had time to stop, to relax, to think – you saw your potential future laid out before you. A life filled with Nick. It was pleasant and grandiose and comfortable and what you’ve always told yourself you wanted. But then you had more time to think. To realise what lay beneath all the frustration and hidden longing, and it was Frankie.

You’re still furious that she endangered _Vybrant_ , something you built together, so casually. Still livid about the apology video she posted to the _Vybrant_ website without your knowledge. Still fuming because she publicly outed your most private thoughts without realizing. Took a private game you played – the flirt game – and aired it in a public forum where it had no business being.

Sometimes you wonder how on earth this happened. How did you, Grace Hanson, cool-headed and emotionally void, fall in love with this fireball of chaos? This frustrating, rash, careless and clumsy person. Because Frankie is careless with your feelings. She tramples on them, unknowingly, all the time. Trespasses across your boundaries and bulldozes your barriers. You spent so long confined in your marriage that you weren’t equipped to deal with Frankie’s intrusions into your psyche, your emotions, your every thought. But you trust her completely. Nothing Frankie does, no disaster she’s brought about, was done with malice and that’s why you forgive her, constantly. That’s why you fix it, if you can. You’d do anything for her. Asked and unasked. You can’t think of another person you love so unconditionally. It’s terrifying. And fortifying and wonderful and overwhelming… and you know she loves you too. She tells you all the time, it’s a fact. Unavoidable and declared. What you don’t know is _how_ she loves you. As a friend? Family member? Romantically?

She doesn’t like labels, nor do you, but you want a name for this thing between you. Maybe you could suggest a naming ceremony. _Name that relationship._ Have a Sharman lead a chocolate fondue blow-out with interpretive dance and whale music. Maybe she’d buy into that bullshit. Maybe then you’d finally have an answer. You snort into your drink. Yeah, and pet pigs might fly.

You see Frankie head into the kitchen and follow, to explain about the back-up wedding cake. You fight. It’s vicious. You throw cruel words and recriminations at each other and then you storm away. Because none of that is what you meant to say. You always seem to underestimate her capabilities and she always seems to overestimate your emotional armour. Your battlements aren’t as robust as they once were, because of her.

You stand in the background, feeling fragile, and watch Bud and Allison cut into the rainbow piñata cake that is surprisingly perfect and hear Bud call Frankie the most amazing Mom in the world, and you realise then how selfish you are because you don’t want to share her. She’s yours. You don’t want to be witness to how many other people she’s important to, how much she’s loved. It makes you feel hollow and lonely. Like you have no right to be here, to intrude. You decide in that instant that you won’t pour your heart out to Frankie after all. Why give her the opportunity to reject you again? And she could, so easily. She has alternatives. She has a sea of people.  


Robert moves beside you. “You look particularly fetching today,” he says with no trace of sarcasm.

You smile your reply. You’re wearing the pale pink dress because it’s one of Frankie’s favourites. She said it made you look like Grace Kelly, “the second coolest blonde I know,” she’d teased and winked at you. Your heart had involuntarily started to hammer and your mouth became dry. You shrugged off the compliment but now, you only wear that dress on special occasions, and only when Frankie will see it.

“It’s been a good day,” he continues.

You make small talk for a while. You’ve grown to like Robert. This version of Robert. The anger doesn’t boil to the surface like it used to. You can converse civilly, even laugh together. Eventually he goes in search of Sol, leaving you to your thoughts. They immediately turn sour.

Frankie hasn’t looked at you once in an hour and suddenly you can’t be here anymore. It’s too painful. You scan the room, see Nick talking to Brianna and sneak away. You want to be by yourself.

It’s only when you’ve left the party, when you’re on the beach, wrapped in a shawl, and feel the sand between your toes and the wind in your hair that you realize you’re crying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Timeline:** The Wedding/The Alternative

You’ve been gone from the party for too long and Nick comes after you. You’re sitting on the beach listening to the gulls circle and the waves crash and break against the sand. It soothes you. You love the sound of the ocean. Ever since you were a child and the wind and sea drowned out the sound of your parent's raised voices.

Nick sits beside you and your mind is still a jumble: full of Frankie and the mess you’ve made. He offers sympathy and a shoulder but you don’t want him to be the one to seek you out, to notice your absence, to feel it like a gnawing pain. But Nick’s here and she’s not. For a brief flickering moment you feel rage. How dare Frankie make you love her and then treat you so cavalierly. You want to punish her. You want her to hurt. You want to not think about her incessantly. Not to long and wish and hope and dream of what could be. It's exhausting. You don't recognise yourself anymore. You want to banish this confusion, want your feelings to fade, want to simply disappear.

“Marry me,” Nick says. 

Whether he sensed your vulnerability and decided to take advantage or saw an opportunity to reassure you that you’re wanted is unclear. But you find yourself agreeing. Find yourself in his car on the way to the airport. Nick already has the rings and, fleetingly, you wonder how long he’s had this planned. But you don’t dwell on it because if you actually stop and think you’ll come to your senses. You’ll go hurtling back to her. Have it out, say too much and leave yourself open. If she said no, if she said she never felt that way about you, if she said you were alone in this, you couldn’t bear that.

So you let Nick whisk you away and as you shakily say your vows, hand trembling as he places the ring on your finger, you feel shitty for doing this. Because you will leave him, this will end, and he’ll be hurt and you’ll be unscathed. He has no claim on any part of you, Frankie pillaged your heart long ago. She squatted you. She hounded and charmed and pursued and cared and liberated you from yourself. You owe her everything.

You spend the night in Nick’s bed, in his arms. He kisses your neck, his arm snaking possessively around your waist as he pulls you closer and calls you Mrs. Skolka. You feel cold all over. Feel icy fingers grip your insides and twist. Your head spins with the realisation of what you’ve done, what you’ll have to undo, though you have no idea how.

You know this was a mistake, you know it to your core. He whispers in your ear that he’s waited for you all his life, that he’s never been so happy, promises to honour you every day and you feel sick. You begin to panic. What have you done?

You stay silent and stroke his arm, the one wrapped around you, anchoring you to him because he's afraid you’ll take flight. You’re tangled in his embrace and he falls asleep murmuring your name, a bright, heart-stopping smile on his face. 

You remember your wedding night with Robert. How he hadn’t touched you, simply laid beside you and held you and you, mistakenly, had thought he was chivalrous. How Nick differs – confident and demanding. He wanted to devour you. You allowed him to but you're still hiding. You wonder if this is how Robert felt all those years ago. A fraud. A trickster. Afraid. Alone. All the things you feel now. All the things you never feel when you’re with Frankie.

She’s behind every thought and every action. She infiltrated your defences and you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining how different it would be if she was beside you instead. Unruly grey hair fanned out on the pillow, blue eyes gazing trustingly at you. That wide smile, that infectious laugh. She has no idea of her effect, of her guileless beauty, and you’ve never wanted anyone as much as you want her.

You wonder what she’s doing. Is she in her studio, on a _Mountain Dew_ fuelled high, blaring _Nirvana_ and painting her way out of your fight? Is she drawing you as a vampire again? Has she recast you in that role?

A few months back she made a collage of all the photo’s she'd taken of you asleep, bedazzled the frame and called it “Sleeping Beauty”. Your pulse had spiked at that as a glimmer of hope was ignited in you. She thinks you’re beautiful. Striking. 

The first time Frankie walked in on you in the bath (that second month you found yourselves living together at the beach house, sharing the same nightmare of lies and impending divorce), she’d shamelessly run her eyes over your naked form, appraisingly, and smiled wolfishly before saying “better than I thought.” You’d blushed profusely and yelled at her to get the hell out, and she abided with a nonchalant shrug, but then you’d been consumed by the knowledge that she’d imagined you naked.

And when you touched yourself, later that night, hand slipping beneath the crisp white sheet and gliding down to rest between your legs, you tried to banish Frankie from your thoughts but she kept resurfacing. Until you could fight it no more and you came with her name on your lips and her image branded on the back of your eyelids. When the exaltation subsided and your heartbeat calmed, you felt a deep sense of guilt and shame.

You spent so many years avoiding her. Did you know, unconsciously, even then, what Frankie would come to mean to you? Could you feel her draw? Did you feel it keenly and that’s why you resolved to detest her? To mock and belittle her for 40 years. To keep yourself safe. It failed though, didn’t it? She was inevitable. Loving her was inevitable and you surrendered to it, eventually. 

Maybe this is Frankie's test, not yours. Her reaction to the news of your elopement will tell you what you need to know. If she’s happy for you then she never felt a fraction of what you do. But if she’s devastated, well, that’s all the proof you need. That’s the defining moment.

As soon as Nick is sound asleep you crawl out of his arms. You get dressed, grab a bottle of Vodka and your car keys and leave the house. 

You need air. Need to think. You drive fast and, on instinct, find yourself at the beach. She’s still calling to you, your chaotic siren. You decide to walk. You feel restless. You pace the length of the beach, breathing in the salty air and slugging back the vodka. Trying to clear your head. 

When the vodka’s gone you sit on a rock, watch the sun rise and pull your cardigan closer about you as the wind picks-up. You stare out to sea and imagine a life without her. Imagine the you you’d be without her influence. It petrifies you. It’s ugly and sad and shakes you.

You’re overtaken by an urgent need to see her, to speak to her. Your feet carry you blindly towards the beach house, the home you share with her. You catch sight of her sitting on the beach and you call out. You shout her name, it bursts from you, uncontrolled and desperate. She looks up and you feel immense relief when she starts racing towards you, calling your name like a psalm, arms spread wide and waving wildly.

You run towards her. The sand shifts beneath your feet. You can’t breathe, your lungs burn, your muscles ache. Everything hurts.

You reach each other breathless and panting. She’s so beautiful and brave and unguarded, she grips your arms as an apology tumbles from her lips. Mirroring your own thoughts and feelings. And when you look into her eyes you know everything is forgiven. And it’s so good to be in sync with her again. You feel peaceful and rejuvenated and hopeful. You clasp her hands, warm in yours, and mutter your own confession… an admission you’ve never dared utter aloud before.  


“You’re my best friend and my partner and I… I need you,” you declare.

You fear you may have over-stepped but it needed to be said, needed to be heard.

Those fears are allayed when she hugs you tightly. “Oh, I need you too Grace,” she says, and your heart breaks. It fractures under the guilt, the contempt you hold yourself in for what you’re about to do. You’re going to break her all over again.

You draw back from her embrace. She takes your hands and she’s smiling, so sweetly, her eyes glittering with warmth and trust. “So lets go home.”

All the things you wanted to tell her leave your head. Like when she first moved to Santa Fe you watched _The Goonies_ every night because you missed her. That the password to your email is ‘Kevin’ because it always makes you smile. That you know all the words to Drake after she blasted his songs over her car radio repeatedly. That _Del Taco_ is your secret comfort food, that you now find the smell of burning sage soothing and that, actually, you think _Ray Donovan_ is a riveting show.

You want to tell her she has changed everything. Has changed you. You want to offer a size, a scope, a magnitude of this feeling she inspires within you. This love you don’t know what to do with. But none of this comes out. Instead you say: “There’s just one thing, I married Nick last night,” and raise your hand to show her the ring Nick put on your finger not five hours ago. A ring that already feels heavy, weighted with disappointment and unfulfilled promises.

You see Frankie’s face crumble. Her eyes flash with hurt and betrayal and realisation. The ramifications of your stupid split-second decision reverberate. Your stomach plummets and your heart stutters because you never wanted to see that expression on her face, let alone be the cause of it. But there are no words that can undo this.

And you know now that she loves you just as deeply. Her face is all the proof you need. This is the defining moment when everything alters and shifts and there’s no going back.

She turns her back on you, sinks down onto the sand. You kneel beside her, she’s silent and trembling, and you’re afraid. Afraid to touch her, afraid to speak, afraid of what you have done, but most of all, afraid you’ve lost her for good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** A massive thank you to everyone who has left a comment. They're muchly appreciated.

After what seems an eternity, after the wind chills your bones and your throat is scratchy and your limbs numb, you say weakly: “Frankie?”

She doesn’t look at you, keeps staring out to sea.

“Frankie, are you okay?” you ask, because you don’t know what else to say and this moment is so monumental and raw but you feel like you’re experiencing it alone. And for all Frankie’s protestations that she’s an emotion wizard, she sometimes hides from the biggest, most important revelations. To protect herself.

“No,” she finally murmurs, eyes full of despair. “No I’m not okay because I’m heartbroken.”

And you remember all those years ago, on this very beach, you’d gone after her clutching a bottle of _Skelaxin_ for her back pain. And you’d sat and watched her cry, broken-hearted over Sol’s betrayal, then got high on Peyote and pills. It had been a cathartic and visceral experience. One burned into your consciousness. 

And as you watch the tears begin to fall now, you know she’s more inconsolable over your betrayal. It brings you pleasure and pain in equal measure.

You want to reassure her, to catch her tears, want to tell her a thousand things at once. Your chest aches. You’re 80 years old and for the first time you’re deeply, irrevocably, in love. And it hurts.

“It was a mistake Frankie,” the words rush together, you’re breathless and earnest, and you hear the desperation in your own voice. You need her to believe you because you’re supposed to be in this together. You want her by your side. Want never to be further from her than this.

She looks at you now, confusion on her lovely face, hair billowing in the wind. Her brow furrows but she’s listening.

So you continue. “I wish I’d never done it,” and somehow the honesty of this statement is glaringly cruel. 

You remember when she’d asked you to make a wish, when Robert was in the hospital after his heart attack and you’d felt obliged to help so you’d gone back to that big, horrible, empty, lonely house, fetching and carrying for him again, and Frankie had asked you to make a wish and you couldn’t. 

You didn’t know what you wanted, then. Now your heart is filled with a thousand wishes, all of them encompassing Frankie and how to keep her close.

Frankie’s expression softens, slightly. You’re relieved, until she speaks.

“But you did do it Grace.”

You stare at her. Your mind blank. Suddenly you feel very small and petty and how could you do this to the very person you hold dearest?

She looks away again. Tentatively you reach out. You cover her hand with yours. She doesn’t pull away. When your fingers encircle hers, she squeezes, tight, and your heart is in your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

She smiles, but it’s a sad smile. As if you’ve crushed her heart again. “You know, if you learnt to process your anger instead of reacting, the world would be a better place. Maybe I _should_ put you in touch with Frigg after all.”

You accept the reprimand, it’s the least you deserve. And maybe there’s something to be said for seeking guidance from a goddess associated with foresight and wisdom, rather than repressed rage and a vodka bottle.

She looks at you, tilts her head, her eyes full of uncertainty. “What do we do now?” she asks quietly.

But she said ‘we’ so you still have a tenuous grasp on hope.

“We undo it and go home,” you reply.

“Home?”

“To the beach house. Together. Our home is together,” you assert.

She smiles again, this time it’s bright and indulging. “I’ve known that for ages Grace, I was just waiting for you to catch-up.”

Your hand tightens around hers and before you can stop it, the words fall from your lips. 

“I love you Frances.”

“I love you too Kevin.”

You both grin. Stupid, dopey grins. And for a blissful moment you feel 17 again, full of wonder and hope and heart fluttering in your chest as your stomach summersaults, and your skin tingles from head-to-toe in the most delicious way.

Franky turns to you, studying you. She reaches out and tucks your windswept hair behind your ear, her expression one of enchanted admiration… and how have you not seen it before? The million ways she’s tried to tell you she was in love with you. It suddenly seems so blindingly obvious that you feel a fool to have ever doubted it.

“My tenacious little prairie dog with an upturned collar and killer heels,” her fingers slowly glide along your jaw, a feather-light touch, just the tips of her fingers tracing your face. 

You suck in a sharp breath, heart hammering, as she continues her exploration. And you can tell by the reverence in her manner, in the tenderness of her caress, that she’s thought about this, about touching you, a lot.

Her fingers cup your chin, her thumb brushes across your bottom lip. You gasp involuntarily, feel a shiver run down your spine. Your lips part and her eyes focus on your mouth. She leans forward and her free hand slides into your hair, grips the back of your neck and tugs you towards her.

Your lips meet and you are kissing her. Or rather, she is kissing you. Your heart leaps and your pulse spikes and you feel the heat of her, loose yourself in sensation and longing.

All at once she’s everywhere: hands roaming every inch of you that she can reach. Body pressed tightly to yours, chests flush and hips bumping. Your hands frame her face, pulling her closer still, feeling her tremble in your arms. And this, all tongues and teeth and fervour, this is perfection. All those years you wasted chasing a false ideal, striving and pushing… and this, Frankie in your arms, is all you ever needed.


	4. Chapter 4

The kiss ends and your lips part. In a haze of euphoria and lust, you look at each other, faces mere inches apart. You’re wide-eyed and flushed, lips kiss-swollen and bodies flooded with exhilaration. You both want this, you’re taking the leap together.

You smile shyly at each other, which makes the lines around her eyes and mouth more pronounced. You bite your bottom lip, her eyes smoulder and your breath catches.

“Well, you can certainly kiss Grace Hanson.”

“Not so bad yourself,” you tease, and it’s not Keats or Byron or in any way the romantic poetry you want to spill from your soul to describe the life-altering experience of kissing Frankie, but it will have to do. You’re nothing if not practical and that’s the you that Frankie loves, so fuck it. You always overthink things anyway.

The fact that you’ve just kissed your best friend seems perfectly normal and the fact that you’re not freaking out, and neither is she, surprises you. It seems such a natural progression, a simple, shared, inevitable conclusion. After all that pining and craving and torment… and here you are. All it took was a little honesty and a little bravery and you could’ve been happy long ago, if you’d allowed yourself. But you refuse to regret anything. You’re here now, at last, and you’ll savour every moment and do whatever it takes to make this work. It has to work because you can’t live without her. You know this because you’ve tried and it wasn’t a life worth having.

“What else are you good at?” Frankie asks and waggles her eyebrows suggestively. Then giggles, giddy and girlishly.

You roll your eyes from habit but can’t stop a grin from spreading across your face because you want to show her _all_ the things you’re good at and all the things you’ve imagined you’re good at but have yet to try. That’s when you realise one of her hands is beneath your top, pressed against bare skin, hot fingers spread across your ribs, having travelled there during the heat and ardour of your first kiss. And you realise this is moving too fast. You want this but you want to do it right. Frankie deserves that. So do you.

“Let’s take it slow,” you say, reluctantly clasping the wrist of her wandering hand and drawing it away from your overheated flesh, simultaneously pushing away the carnal thoughts invading your head.

“Any slower and one of us will be dead before we get it on! I don’t wish to be an alarmist Grace but you’re 80. We’ve been building towards this for five years and whilst ‘Slow’ is a valid motto, I feel it’s time to fully embrace ‘Fuck It’ and go full throttle.”

You smile, full of affection and desire, remembering how her need for instant gratification usually drives you nuts but in this instant seems endearing. Your voice comes out strong and insistent. “I want to end things with Nick first. Before we… take things further.”

“Clit tease,” Frankie purrs playfully. Then something dark and indecipherable flits across her face and she says, with all seriousness and a hint of spite. “He shoulda never asked you to marry him. Didn’t he know you already had a wife?”

“I think… maybe he did,” you say quietly.

Her expression softens and she grips your hands tightly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” you assure.

You stroke her cheek and she smiles fondly at you. You tilt forward and press a soft, tender kiss to her lips. You feel her sigh and your heart speeds up. You lean back and study her.

“I want to do this properly,” you say sincerely.

“I think talking to Mr. Moneybags first is a good idea but, as you know, I have poor impulse control so if you stay here much longer, looking at me like that, you may have to fend me off. I could get a little handsy.”

“Noted,” you say and run your fingers through her hair, because you can. It’s silky soft and your heart hammers in your chest, a sereneness overcomes you as everything in the world aligns for the first time and makes sense. A wave of gratitude so deep and pure unfurls within you and you have Frankie to thank for that, and it’s not something you ever thought you’d feel. You never thought you would be one of the privileged who felt this overwhelming all-encompassing love for another person. It’s miraculous really. You know you’ll always put her first and who knew you could be so selfless? Your family would scoff at the very notion but nothing’s ever been truer.

Frankie smiles, eyes blazing, as she stares at you as if you were a pancake with all the fixin’s. Like she could eat you right up. Your libido immediately makes your mind jump to erotic imagery starring you, a bed, a jar of yam lube and Frankie. You blush, it spreads down your neck and across your chest.

Frankie notices and smirks. “Are you having lurid thoughts about me Kevin?”

You laugh, partly embarrassed and partly because you think the Cosmo is an asshole with a twisted sense of humour for providing you with a soul mate, the love of your life, the ying to your yang, who thinks ‘Kevin’ is a suitable term of endearment.

“How’d I get so lucky?” you jest.

Frankie takes your hands again. “Must’ve been a saint in a former life cos you’ve been a total bitch in this one!” She gives you a long loving smile and adds softly. “But you’re my bitch.”

You snort a laugh. You want to spar with her forever, till you’re older and greyer and your days come to an end, and you can’t help yourself, you lunge forward and press your mouth to hers. That wonderfully hot, pliant mouth and those soft, soft lips. Frankie moans into your mouth, hands gripping your cardigan, trying to pull you closer. You resist, barely. You draw back again. Her eyes are dark as you peer into them. There’s no clever retort, no flippant comment designed to provoke, just a simmering look that stirs and arouses… she swallows nervously and you wonder what she sees in your eyes.

You don’t want to look away but you must. You find your feet, ignore the look of disappointment now cast on Frankie’s face and hold your hands out to her. She takes them and your grip is firm as you help her up.

You stand a width apart, trying not to touch her. You reach out and fondle the ridiculously enormous stone pendant of her necklace, which resembles a boulder rather than a piece of jewellery, to keep distracted. It’s smooth and cold to the touch. “I need to talk to Nick, then I’ll come back and then we can figure out what we’re going to do about us,” you declare.

“There’s definitely an ‘us’ now, right? You’re not going to wimp-out on me, are you? Because I don’t think I could take that,” she says, eyes filling with panic as she starts to unconsciously rub her sternum and take deep shaky breaths.

“I want to be with you,” you reply surely and gently brush aside her hand, replacing her fingertips with yours as you soothingly massage her sternum. 

Frankie calms and breaks into a radiant smile. A smile that could put the sun to shame, could energise a solar power plant for infinity, it’s so bright.

“I want that too, even more than I want chickens.”

“It’s an honour to be mentioned in the same breath as the chickens!” you mock.

She lets out a delighted laugh, throws her arms around you and kisses you enthusiastically. It sends your head whirling and makes your body tingle.

“I’ll wait for you,” she says softly. “Come back to me when you’re done.”

You nod, still wrapped in her arms, heart still beating wildly.

“And be gentle,” she says because even though she detests Nick and all he stands for, she’s always compassionate. It’s one of the traits you love most about her.

“I will,” you promise. 

And you feel the dread start to permeate your newfound happiness. You picture Nick’s face when you tell him. Imagine the fallout. Will he yell? Cry? Lash out? Guilt-trip you? Try to manipulate you into staying? Throw you out? Your stomach lurches and your muscles tense.

Frankie senses it all and gazes at you sympathetically. “Do you want me to blow a bit of my courage into your mouth?” she asks earnestly.

You nod because even though you don’t believe in all that hippy-trippy bullshit, she does, and she’s trying to help and you can’t refuse her anything at this point.

She smiles sweetly, cups your face and leans forward. Her lips so close to yours, you can feel her breath. Your lips part and she gently blows. It’s a tender and charged moment. So intimate and surreal. And so perfectly encompasses your indefinable relationship, so utterly unexplainable to those outside of it.

She draws back, serenely presses her palms together and bows her head slightly. “Namaste, Grace,” she says.

“Namaste, Frankie,” you respond because you want to prove how important she is to you.

Her eyes shine, a gleeful grin forms on her beautiful face and she hugs you, almost crushing you with the force of it. When you draw back from her arms, you give her a half-smile and then turn and head back to your car. You feel her watching you and it strengthens your resolve.

What you’re about to do is going to suck celestial balls. You’re about to piss away any good karma you had stored-up. As you get into your car you wonder if Nick is awake yet, if he knows you’re already gone.


	5. Chapter 5

You step off the elevator at the _Penthouse Suit_ and enter cautiously.

Nick is up. He’s eating breakfast in his robe. You smile nervously: your whole body is riddled with tension and your stomach is in knots.

“Hi,” you greet.

He looks up at you and smiles. “Hey wife,” he grins broadly. “Where’d you get to this morning?”

“The beach. Needed to clear my head.” You clasp your hands in front of you, like an awkward guest. “We need to talk.”

“Everything okay?” he asks, his brow creased in worry.

His concern makes this so much worse. You want to say ‘ _Everything’s perfect – the love of my life loves me too and this is the happiest day of my life… but you’re an unfortunate blimp_.’

He pats the chair beside him. Reluctantly you sit. He rubs your arm. You flinch.

“Honey, you’re worrying me. What’s wrong?”

You meet his eye. You don’t know where to begin. There is no easy way to do this.

“I’m sorry.” You start with the simplest, most condensed thing you want to say, that you want him to take away from this conversation. 

Nick looks confused. “Sorry for what?”

“I can’t do this, with you. It was a mistake.”

He tilts his head as he regards you, a fond look in his eyes, as if he expected this. He thinks you’ve got cold feet, thinks it’s temporary, thinks he can talk you round, reassure you and win you over. He’s wrong and you need to make that clear. 

“At the beach I saw Frankie,” you begin.

He held in an exasperated sigh. His jaw tightening. “You couldn’t go one day? Grace, I don’t want to share you. Things are different now.”

You nod. “They are.”

His expression softens. “You chose me, remember?”

You shake your head and your chest tightens. “I chose her. I will always choose her.” He looks crestfallen and your heart is pounding but you push on because there is no alternative, and you’re definitely going to need to go to _Dave & Buster’s_ to do fireball shoots after this. “I don’t belong here. My life is with Frankie. I love her and I won’t sacrifice another day.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “You and Kooky? Together-together?”

“Yes.”

There’s an unnerving silence. You can’t read his expression. Nick stands and you can’t bear the tension.

“Say something,” you implore.

He turns sharply to look at you and is unerringly calm. “I won’t divorce you.”

And you realise you can’t get out of this smoothly. Nick never played fair when you were dating, why would he now that you’re trying to leave? He was spoilt, used to getting what he wanted.

“I don’t love you Nick,” you say gently.

“I don’t care,” he replies adamantly. 

This stumps you. You hadn’t expected that and you don’t know what to say in response to console, cajole or reason with him. 

His eyes are unflinching. His expression solemn. “We’re married. I’m your husband, you’re my wife. Merger complete. It’s a done deal, Grace.”

Your heart sinks. You stare at him for a moment and wonder if he was always this much of a jackass. 

“It’s over,” you say, your voice firm and a little impatient. “I should never have married you and I’m so sorry if I’ve hurt you. That was never my intention,” you take a sharp breath as you hold his eye. “Frankie and I want to be together,” you had wanted to spare his feelings as much as possible but his obnoxious obstinacy is making that impossible. “I’m sorry it ended this way Nick, truly. I know that’s my fault but… I love her.”

“It’s not over,” he replies stubbornly.

For a moment you’re not sure what to think or feel and in that instant you ponder whether this is about his wounded pride rather than his wounded heart, then you feel uncharitable. He loves you, you’re in no doubt of that. 

This is not going the way you thought it would. Of the thousand possible scenarios that had raced through your head when you’d embarked on the car journey here, none of them had been this. His dogged refusal to accept the facts, to listen to you, his stalwart indifference to the end of your (admittedly brief) marriage.

You have no desire to draw this out, to make it more painful than it needs to be, so you rise from your seat and move towards him. “I’m in love with Frankie and for some inexplicable reason she loves me too. I’m just sorry it took me so long to admit.” Then add kindly, “You’ll find someone else Nick. Someone who deserves all your love and attention, someone who can give you everything I never could.” 

Nick expels a shaky breath and clenches his fists into balls.

“I’ll be in touch with my lawyer today to start divorce proceedings,” you state.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

You turn to go, that’s when he grabs you. Clings to you. Shakes you. Tells you he adores you, that you can’t do this, that you’re breaking his heart, that you’re cruel, that you’ll regret it. 

You almost feel relieved, feel that you’ve broken through, that it’s sunk in… now he’ll grieve, now he’ll be able to move on.

There are tears and he’s shouting and railing at you. You stay silent and take it, because you helped cause this situation and, in your vast experience, men are more manageable if they feel they’ve had their say. So you let him get it out, let him exhaust himself ranting and pleading. 

He kicks over a coffee table and throws an expensive vase against the wall, which shatters loudly. 

You wait.

When he’s calmer, red-faced and panting from exertion, cheeks tear-stained and eyes full of contempt and hatred for you, then you take his wedding ring from your finger and set it down on the nearest surface.

“Goodbye Nick,” you say with finality.

He looks devastated. Looks broken. You did that. 

Everyone’s right, you are a bitch.

You turn and walk away. 

“Grace!” he cries out desperately.

You keep walking, and it’s not the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do but it’s damn close.


	6. Chapter 6

You go back to Frankie at the beach house because really, you should never have left. She’s your solace and your hope, your tormentor and redeemer, your future and your past, and, most of all, your love. For the first time that doesn’t scare the hell out of you or make you want to throw-up at the sickening sentimentality of it. It’s unlike you to embrace emotion so readily but you nearly blew it, nearly ruined the best thing that ever happened to you, and you won’t risk losing Frankie again. You refuse to be afraid anymore.

You catch sight of your reflection in the rear-view mirror of the car and you’re grinning like a fool, eyes shining and face aglow. You’ve never seen yourself this happy. It’s startling. It’s something you could definitely get used to, this lightness, this inexplicable wellbeing. Better than any vodka buzz.

When you reach the beach house Frankie’s waiting for you. Well, she’s pacing and rubbing her sternum and muttering to herself. Patience was never her forte.

As soon as you step through the door she races towards you and bombards you with a million questions. The gist being: what happened? How did he take it? What happens next?

“Frances, slow your roll,” you tell her.

She’s over-agitated. She looks at you worriedly and for a dreadful moment you think she’s about to burst into a rousing rendition of _She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain_. That’s one experience you have no inclination to repeat. Franky has many wonderful qualities, holding a tune isn’t one of them.

“I thought you weren't coming back,” she says quietly. “I thought you'd take one look around the Penthouse Suit and decide it was a much better life than being stuck here with me watching repeats of _Ray Donavan_. Out with the old hippy, in with the new vile, disreputable capitalist misogynist pig.”

You grasp Frankie by the shoulders, trying to stop this meltdown in its tracks before it really takes hold.

“I haven't changed my mind, Frankie. It's you. It will always be you.”

She holds your eye and smiles that smile, the one that could rival a supernova, the one that makes your heart skip and steals your breath, the one she saves just for you.

“Did he make a scene? Was it ugly?” she asks.

You nod.

She takes your hand. “Did you tell him about us? Did you name me as your paramour?”

“Yes but I didn't phrase it like a 14th century French courtier. I was honest. I returned his ring. Told him it was over. Asked for a divorce.”

You sit on the couch, emotionally wrung-out. For someone who had made it to the ripe age of 75 by constantly skimming over their ‘feelings’, you’re certainly making-up for lost time. The last five years have been a steep learning curve of tumultuous emotions and learning to deal with them. 

Frankie sits beside you, watching you. 

You close your eyes. “I’m tired,” you say.

She leans her head against your shoulder and curls into you. You smile and press your cheek against the top of her head. You breathe in her herbal shampoo and feel your whole body relax. Everything is right again, on an even keel, and the future is filled with nothing but potential and promise.

“Grace,” Frankie says gently. “If I ever give you shit for being an emotional coward again, remind me of today and feel free to kick my ass.”

You smile, your voice full of affection. “I’d settle for you not putting your hat in the dishwasher as recompense.”

“Deal,” Frankie said. “I will super probably be able to do that, or not do that, rather.”

She covers your hand with hers and entwines your fingers. You open your eyes and look down at your joined hands. Her touch is light and warm. She runs her thumb across your knuckles. You let out a sharp breath. You feel her lips curve in a satisfied smile.

“Grace?”

“Hm?”

“As your paramour - ”

“Stop saying _paramour_.”

“Do you think that I should move my things into your room? You know, make it official.”

You snort. “Frankie, your things are already in my room. Your clothes are in my wardrobe, a questionable sculpture of the goddess Soteria is on my bookshelf, your spare pyjamas are under my pillow, your books _Healing Herbal Tea's: Volume 3_ and _The Female Eunuch_ are on my beside table, your paint brushes are in my bathroom and for some inexplicable reason, so are your binoculars, and every night you use my toothbrush - even though I’ve asked you not to, repeatedly. We couldn’t be more ‘official’ if we tried.”

Frankie sighs contentedly.

“What?” you ask.

“I’m just happy. For a moment there I was worried things might get a bit weird between us now that we’ve admitted our romantic feelings for each other, but no. You’re still bitchin’ at me, as usual, and I’m ignoring you, as usual, and I love that the fundamentals haven’t changed. We’re gonna to be okay Grace Hanson.”

“Yes we are,” you assure her softly.

Frankie raises her head off your shoulder and gazes into your eyes, her smile is large and joyful. She’s radiant and for a moment your heart beats wildly and you forget to breathe. You return her smile. She leans forward and kisses you. It’s gentle. Lips barely touching. She slides her arms around your neck and pulls you closer, her mouth becomes greedy and demanding as she deepens the kiss, you moan and she tugs you even closer.

Your kisses becomes heated and heady. You only draw back from her when you must, when you both need to break for air. You stay close, stroke her cheek, and catch your breath because now there’s nothing stopping you. No insurmountable obstacles, no unfortunate third person complicating matters. Just you and Frankie.

“We have a lot to talk about,” you say.

She nods. “We do and we will, but now is the time for kissing and _calling your cousin_.”

Frankie gives you a devilish grin and waggles her eyebrows suggestively. For once you don't argue. You wrap your arms around her and pull her into another kiss, feverish and unrestrained. Frankie melts into you and you lose yourself wholly in the moment. In the gloriously heart-stopping moment when you finally have everything you ever wanted.


End file.
